The Z Word
by Fanboy1069
Summary: Zombies! A first person perspective of yet another apocalypse. Based on the shuffling horrors of movie fame. References to real people or media outlets are purely for entertainment purposes, blah, blah, blah. Don't sue, I'm poor. Some strong language
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

A lot of the survivors try to point out the good that came of this. Things like how real world peace has descended in the wake of the global military cooperation that stamping these things out completely entailed. Like that no one is starving in Africa anymore (of course, as far as anyone knows, no one lives in Africa anymore). Most all of the civil wars and ethnic cleansings have stopped too (of course, that was a simple matter of one side letting the other side get decimated before cleaning house, natch).

Some of us, though, lost just about everything and everyone that mattered to us. Take me for instance...

I was at work when it all started. I was working a pretty screwed up schedule at the time, 2 evenings, 2 overnights, and a day shift. I was on the second of my overnights, Thursday into Friday morning. I was totally exhausted because that was the 3rd Friday of the month, and that meant I'd had a staff meeting at 2pm the day before, which played hod with my sleep. Somehow I managed to get in my car, drive home, stumble into bed, and sleep the sleep of the dead without noticing the beginning of the end.

I woke up around 2pm, and did what I usually do, I logged onto WoW. Or tried to. The servers had already failed, and been abandoned by the techs who kept them running no doubt. Despondent, I went out and got some breakfast, and asked my brother what was going on. He'd been playing video games all day, and not seen any of the emergency broadcasts. Given that none of the rest of my family managed to call us, I have to assume that they all got wiped out in the first surges of activity. I hope it was quick at least, although what I've seen tells me it was likely slow and terrifying.

I told him I wanted to watch TV, and he shut the game off and that's when I found out the cable was dead. All static and test patterns. Grumbling, I tossed him the remote, and hit the showers. When I came back out, he was playing again, of course. Hadn't worked in months, wasn't likely to ever again. Wouldn't. I asked him if there'd been any mail, as I was expecting a package from the drugstore online. He said he hadn't checked, so I asked him where his keys were, but as usual, he all of a sudden grew a helpful streak, and leapt up from the couch to go check it. Saved my life.

They hit him almost as soon as he stepped out the door. Our neighbors across the hall, a matronly Irish mom and her 2 daughters, about 6 and 8, just leapt on him, clawing and biting. They looked insane, with dried blood caked on their mouths, and blank, staring eyes. He fought them off long enough to get back inside, and we locked the door, as they started pounding on it. I grabbed the phone and he went to the sink to wash his injuries. I hit 911 and waited. A canned voice message indicated that the lines were busy.

I stared at the phone like it had just told me it enjoyed incestuous pedophilia, and re-dialled. Same result. I tried a few more times, while my bro was cleaning up and bandaging his scratches and bites. We were on our own. He was looking pale, so I sent him to bed with a couple shots of Maker's Mark in him to dull the pain. I kept trying the phone, but after a while, I didn't even get a dial tone anymore.

So, while I was getting down the medium-sized sword from the set of 3 faux Japanese samurai swords on top of my entertainment center, I turned on the stereo and tuned through the AM and FM dials. Mostly static, but I finally pulled in NPR, and learned for the first time what was going on. Some sort of plague was spreading like crazy through the populace, symptoms included homicidal behavior, clumsiness, and cannibalism. Citizens were warned to avoid all contact with infected persons, and to quarantine anyone bitten by a plague victim.

My knuckles went white on that sword's handle. I turned and looked at the door to my brother's room. Almost as if on cue, a muffled thump and a groan came from the other side. I went to the door quietly, and listened. Nothing. I tapped on the door lightly, "Bro?" The door shuddered under an impact, and I jumped back. "C'mon man! Say something!" The door shook again. It was just a flimsy interior door, unlike the sheet-metal-coated one that the neighbors across the hall had given up on a while ago. A crack appeared with the next impact.

I have to say, I was never closer to having a heart attack from sheer anxiety and terror as I was just then. Nothing at all but a will to live and reflexes was in control of what happened next. The door burst in half down the middle and my brother stumbled through it, his hands full of chunks of wood that mocked the term 'splinters', and he charged me. Of its own volition, my right arm swept out, and the decorative sword that had been gathering dust in peace on my entertainment center for two years cleanly sheared his head off. And I screamed. The pounding on my door resumed in earnest. I screamed again, a primal sound, feral and furious. I dropped the sword I was holding, and went back to the entertainment center. I took down the big sword. My car was out front.

Working fast, I put on another pair of pants, and a belt, and slid the now- sheathed long and medium swords into the belt. I put on my leather jacket, and a pair of gloves, and strapped on my heavy work boots. I packed all the non-perishable food I could fit into my duffel bag, along with some spare clothes and medicines. Then I went to the window looking out the front, and peeked out from both sides of the shade. Two school-age children were wandering around out there, blood caked on their lips and hands. I raised the shade, and quietly lifted the window. They hadn't noticed me yet, so I risked a better look. Down at the far end of the lot, two more were ambling around, one I recognized from high school, a fairly nice guy, he used to be.

Unsheathing the larger sword, I dropped the pack out the window, and quickly hopped out after it. The closest two immediately headed at me, and I never hesitated. I lined up a swing and sliced completely through the one on the right at the neck, and chopped the left one's left arm off at the shoulder. She staggered on toward me, her right arm and left stump raised. I punched out with my left fist, catching her in the chest and almost spinning her completely around. My booted right foot sent her sprawling in the dust, and I scooped up the bag, tossed it to the car door, and followed it there. Working by touch, eyeing the rapidly approaching pair from the far side as the one I'd amputated an arm from struggled to rise, I unlocked the door, pulled it open, and then had to fight for some room. The decapitated one didn't so much as twitch.

I tossed the keys onto the seat, and put my hand back on the sword, and made my first mistake. As the two approached, I impaled my old high school buddy through the heart, or at least in the middle of the upper chest. Other than the sword catching on his spine and holding him at sword's length, my thrust had little to no discernable effect. The smaller, my high school buddy's wife, grabbed my left arm and tried to sink her teeth into it, but the leather saved me. I shoved on the sword and he stumbled back, giving me enough time to put a boot in her midsection and send her sprawling. I brought the sword up overhead, and slashed down at my charging high school chum, and split his skull to the jawline. Pain in my left leg jarred me, and I saw that the one-armed girl had crawled over and was worrying my leg like a dog with a meaty soup bone. Once again, my clothing saved me. Pulling the shorter sword out, I plunged it down, through her shoulder and chest, pinning her to the ground, and pulled away.

A glance behind me showed that wifey was getting back up, I turned to her, and hacked her head off as she got partway up. I turned back to the one-armed girl, and did her the same. With the coast clear for the moment, I wiped both blades off on my victims' clothes, mindful of the possibility of blood-borne pathogens, and sheathed them. I tossed the bag into the passenger seat, hopped in, and locked the door. For a moment I panicked, no keys. Then I dug them out from under my arse and started the car. And sat there for a moment. I had no idea where to go. I had half a tank of gas, which would take me about 200 miles at highway speeds, maybe 150 if I had to crawl.

Movement caught my eye, several people shuffling my way, alerted by the engine. Time to clear datum, I'd figure out my next move after the immediate threat was handled. I decided to head for a car dealership, get me a new SUV to plow through obstacles with. Made more sense than staying put at any rate.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I didn't see a single survivor on my way out of my little home town. The only things moving besides me were the plague victims, some tearing at corpses, others zoning in on me as I passed, and the birds. They were everywhere, settled on any corpse that didn't have a pack of the plague-infested tearing at it, helping themselves to an easy meal. Apparently they were immune to the plague, because they seemed very content to ignore me and dine on what was laying about, and there was very little fighting evident, if a carcass was full, there were several others lying about that were easier pickings. Thankfully, I didn't recognize anyone else on my way out of town. Passing the car dealership, I passed on stopping. Too many of the victims stumbling around the area, all immediately making beelines for me as my presence became known to them.

At that point, I found my car surrounded, and I once again felt the survivor in me take over. My right foot just reached for the floorboard on the other side of the gas pedal, and a few thumps and bounces later, I was in the clear again, headed south to the commercial developments and strip malls in the larger community suburbs. More plague victims, but also more car dealerships, and maybe one with enough breathing room to try to score a tougher vehicle.

I passed a couple police cars on my way, parked near each other, like the officers within had set up a roadblock. Legs in a police uniform stuck out from behind one. I slowed down, tempted by the thought of the riot gun mounted within the cruisers, but only a little. Guns hadn't done the cops any good, and so far my swords had. No victims around, and I saw something I did want rather badly, so I stopped, opened my door, jumped out scooped it up, looked around quick, saw nothing moving, and reached into the nearest cruiser to grab the shotgun, but it wouldn't budge. Still panicky, I gave up on it and leapt back to the safety of my car, and gunned it out of there. Didn't see a single one of the freaks, but I had what I wanted, a shiny new riot helmet with face shield. This one even had a head in it. Dunno how I did it, but I stopped the car, shook it out of the helmet as I held it out the window, and sped away, closing the window as I went.

It occurred to me as I sped away that by all rights I ought to be a gibbering basket case, curled into a fetal position and sucking my thumb, making soft mewling sounds around it as I waited to die. Any normal person would, and, well, most of them probably had gone that way. I still hadn't seen a single survivor at that point, and I was getting very detached from reality. I'd killed to defend myself several times already, including my brother, and I knew that the longer I had to think about any of it, the sooner I'd crack, and then I would die, badly.

Desperate for a distraction, I turned on the radio and tuned it to the NPR affiliate. The same recorded broadcast from this morning was still going, and I tried really hard not to think too much about what that meant. Instead, I savored every word of it, reveling in the sound of the speaker's voice. I tried to picture her in my mind, and while the truth was probably that she had a great face for radio, she came out in my head looking a lot like Tyra Banks on a really good day. It started again from the beginning:

_This is an emergency broadcast. The Federal Emergency Management Agency has issued warning of a possible bio-terror attack against US soil. A plague of unknown origins is spreading rapidly through the populace. Symptoms include homicidally violent behavior, incoherence, cannibalism, and disorientation and clumsiness. Spread appears to be by blood-to-blood contact. Anyone bitten should be quarantined immediately. Looting is expressly forbidden, and National Guardsmen and regular Army troops have standing orders to shoot looters on sight. Remain indoors and lock and barricade all accesses to your homes. Cooperate with any Homeland Security authorities in resolving this matter to the best of your ability. Failure to obey orders from Homeland Security authorities is a shooting offense. Continue to listen to this station for further instructions from Homeland Security authorities on how to safely evacuate the area or seek medical aid and disaster relief._

The message hadn't changed in three hours. The woman's voice was, to my mind, a sort of practiced calm, a veneer of professionalism hiding stark terror. Was she still alive? Had the plague victims broken down the doors of her broadcast station, swarmed over the defenders, and torn her limb from limb?

My panic started to mount again. Desperate for anything else, I stabbed the scan button as I dodged haphazardly abandoned vehicles, rolled over corpses, and occasionally a plague victim or two. The radio tuned up the dial, stopping twice for carrier signals with no broadcast accompanying them, and then I heard the first live voice since the last time I heard my brother speak. At first, I thought it was another recording, because I recognized the voice. It was Little Stephen, aka Stephen Van Zant, host of The Underground garage, a rock music radio show.

"Hey there kids! In case you've just joined us from NPR, that is, Not Productive Radio, this is Little Stephen, formerly of The Underground garage, now the last voice of free speech on American radio. That's right kiddies, the shit has officially hit the fan. No one else is saying it, so I will. We're up to our asses in zombies, and the feds are too busy playing reindeer games to actually do anything about it. The regular telephone lines are out, but my producer Tim, a serious genius, has rigged up a feed for a cell phone. So if you're still able to dial, and you can hear this broadcast, we'd love to hear from you, to tell your story, pass on your info for the rest of the survivors. Know a safe spot? Tell us about it. Know a really bad place full of zombies to warn us about, wouldn't mind hearing about that either. The number is area code 234, 555-5309. Tim says we've got a caller on the line now, so go ahead Julie, America's listening, what's left of it that is."

"Stephen?"

"Shoot babe. No commercial's gonna cut ya off, but I will if ya got nuthin to say."

"Oh my God, Stephen! I-I'm in Wellington, a suburb of Boston. Everyone's dead except for me, my boyfriend, and these three guys we met. We've made it out of town, and we're holed up in a farmhouse. We haven't seen any police or soldiers at all, and until we heard you all we got was that stupid useless NPR broadcast on the radio."

"You haven't seen any other survivors?"

"Well, there was an elderly couple with us, but the woman got bitten, and her husband stayed behind with her. I guess they're both dead now. Oh, God Stephen, I didn't even know their names!"

"Hey, nothing you coulda done there. Once bitten, ain't no twice at all. Yeah, that's right folks, real simple: get bit, you're dead. I've seen it happen myself. Incubation seems to be related to how badly injured the victim is. A little nip, you could stay normal for hours, get real torn up, you might change in a few minutes, but either way, you're gonna be shuffling off to the Cannibal Grill. Just do us all a favor and get your whole head in front of the shotgun if that happens, okay kids?"

There was dead air for a second, and Stephen started up again. "Julie, you still there?"

"Oh, shit, there's some outside! I think they heard the radio!"

Over her line, glass could be heard shattering. Small arms fire erupted, a staccato popping sound, and there were shouts and screams. I listened, along with anyone else, horrified and praying. I was still driving, weaving in and out of cars and bodies, looking for something I wasn't even aware of. On the radio, there was a strangled woman's scream as the gunfire died off, and then then some meaty smacking sounds. Stephen started up again.

"Ok, well, scratch Wellington off your list of possible survivor locations, people, and word to the wise, turn them radios down. The zombies ain't so graceful, but those fuckers can hear, dig it? That's pretty damn depressing, no two ways about it, but don't give up people. Keep your guards up, find yourselves a damn good hole to hide in, and sleep in shifts for Chrissakes. Do yourselves, and me, a favor. Don't risk your life to call me. Get yourself secure someplace, or call me on the run while someone else is driving, dig? Tim says we got another call coming in, so go ahead Dave, and keep your eyes open while ya talk brother."

"Jesus, poor girl! She sounded kinda hot, too."

"Nice, man, real nice."

"Sorry. Man what a fucked up situation, huh?"

"It is what it is bro. Got any info for me and the listeners?"

"Yeah. Yeah I do. Look, we just high-tailed it out of Wilmington, Delaware, and it wasn't zombies on our heels. It was Army regulars. My Hummer's all shot up, and lemme tell ya something people, the mileage on these things does suck, but they can take one hell of a beating. If you get the opportunity to trade vehicles for a Hummer, do it!"

"Ok, you said Army regulars were shooting at you? You sure about that?"

"Swear to God, Stephen. They killed my cousin Janice, blew her head off. We managed to get to a checkpoint outside of DC, and as soon as she got out they opened fire. I-I was gonna get out, help her, but...aw shit, her brains came out of her head...I..."

"Nah, man, don't blame yourself. No way that's on you. Okay kids, DC is off limits, looks like the powers-that-be are making a fort and don't wanna share. Dave, you still with me man?"

"Yeah. Look, me and Jerry here, we're both ex-Marines. His wife and kid are with us. Cissy's driving, Jerry's riding shotgun. We're trained professional soldiers, looking for a group to join. Safety in numbers, ya know? So, anyone north of DC, you looking for a couple bad-asses to watch your backs, give us a call, and we'll come running and gunning. Number's 829 555-6708. 829 555-6708."

"That's a damn good idea, Dave. Ok kids, listen up. I got another cell number here, and Tim's gonna take your calls on it. 234 555-1704. It's not a chit-chat line, and you won't be on the air. He's gonna get your name, number, location, and how many you got with you, and then he's gonna hang up and let the next person call and give him the same info. Then were gonna go through that list in a while, and any of you that are close to each other, we're gonna call back, and hook you up, and you can take it from there. Then you're gonna tell us what your plans are, and we're gonna broadcast that, so that anyone in that area that can hear us can try to reach you and team up."

He went on for a while like that, taking calls, listening to horror stories, letting us know what places to avoid, where we might find help, even good places to try holing up or finding a secure shelter. All the time, I kept threading my way through the Apocalypse. I was still looking for something, and I still had no clue what it was.

And then I saw it. And realized I had driven past one just like it, right in my home town. It was almost funny. The road had cleared up pretty good here, but I didn't bother picking up speed. Behind me was a steady stream of, well, Stephen had said it, and it fit. A steady stream of zombies. Looked like about fifty. They were almost single file out of necessity, having followed the same course I had. I sped up a little, and got a few hundred feet ahead of them, and screeched to a halt. I put the car, a bloodied, dented mess that, in a sane world, would have gotten me shot by a traffic cop rather than merely arrested, in park, and waited. The line shuffled ever closer, and finally, the last few cleared the mess of abandoned cars. Moving as individuals, the little crowd was in a nice neat line behind me.

I put on the helmet, and strapped it down tight, tightened my seatbelt, put the transmission in reverse, and floored the gas. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. I hit the leader, an oldish-looking man in a suit, at about 35-40mph, and just held the wheel straight as I collected more and more of them. I saw a few fly past on the left, spun out of the path by the ones I was piling up on my trunk lid. Then one of them went down instead of to the side. The car bucked as it rolled over the body, and all of a sudden, it was raining zombies. As they rolled over the roof, most of the window glass shattered. I rolled over several more, and totally lost control of the car. I hit an abandoned pickup, well cushioned by several zombies, and got a really good neck strain as I lurched to a halt. The engine stalled out. And for a moment, it was really quiet, except for Stephen talking to another female survivor.

Then a bloodied right hand clamped over the edge of my door, and pulled a zombie upright just outside my window. His face was half grated off, including a piece of his skull. Naturally, he reached for me as soon as he saw me. I fended him off as best I could with my left arm while I turned the key with my right hand. The engine did nothing at all. For a moment I panicked, then I remembered to shift into Park and tried again. The starter fired up, and churned and churned, but the engine refused to catch. I saw more zombies gettng up all around, but many lay in broken heaps, unable to move their shattered limbs.

The zombie finally latched onto my arm and went at it like it was a really big corncob, gnawing away at my leather jacket, fortunately doing nothing. If the place I bought it at hadn't gone out of business years before, I'd have vowed to mail them a really nice thank you letter; instead, I just started feathering the gas pedal while I kept the key cranked. Finally the engine roared to life as another zombie leaned in the passenger window and started groping at me.

I flung the shifter into drive and floored the gas. The car surged forward, and Corncobber almost pulled my left arm out of its socket before he lost his grip and fell away. Three more zombies rolled over my hood, and I switched hands on the wheel, using my right to punch at the newest attacker, an old woman with a nearly bald head who had apparently lost her little blue wig somewhere along the way. She snapped at my fist and caught it first try, and her teeth sliced thorough my glove and sunk into my hand, and I almost lost it, but when I pulled my hand back, her false teeth came with it.

At that point I did lose it, and started giggling. I grabbed her by the throat and held her at arm's length, pushing her head down toward the passenger legspace. Meanwhile, I yanked the wheel to the left, and rolled into the parking lot of a rather drab looking building made of corrugated metal. The impact as I bounced off a parked car sent the old lady headfirst into the floorboards, and I heard her neck snap. Almost immediately her movements went from purposeful to spasmodic. I ignored her for the moment, and stopped the car just outside the office entrance. Praying hard, I unhooked my seatbelt, grabbed the duffel bag, and ran for the door, a glance over my shoulder showing about fifteen zombies heading my way from the road, and several more flopping around where my car had left them.

The door was unlocked, and I pulled it open, went in, and immediately shut it behind me. The front office was all glass, so I gave up on locking or barring the door, and just headed for the back. Sure enough, there was an entrance into the remainder of the building, and even better, a peg board full of keyrings. I grabbed one marked #3, and ran through the back exit. And into heaven. Well, not heaven per se, but an indoor parking garage full of DoT snowplows and dumptrucks, and that's pretty damn close to heaven when you really need a big damn truck to plow through obstacles with. I saw a truck with a big old number 3 painted on the side of it, and charged straight for it.

I got about halfway to it when movement on my left caught my eye.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Keys in my right hand, duffel bag in my left, I was never less prepared to fight that at that moment. I leapt to my right, away from the movement, and dropped the bag. As I hit the cement floor I tried to roll, but the swords strapped to my waist stopped me and I skidded instead, painfully. My head bounced hard off the floor, and if I hadn't been wearing the helmet, I'd probably be dead. I struggled to draw a sword and get to at least my knees, a series of movements so at odds with each other that I must have looked ridiculous trying to do it.

In fact, I'm pretty sure I did, which is probably why he started laughing. My helmet had half-twisted around, and I could barely see out with my left eye. I'd nearly jumped out of my skin reacting to an old man dressed in a pair of old blue jeans, a mostly red plaid shirt, and a light denim jacket. He had a wide leather belt on his hip, a tool pouch like electricians and construction workers wear depending from it, filled with pistols and bullets. There was no blood on his face, but he was pointing a damn big gun at my face. It looked like the one Dirty Harry had, a 44 Magnum, but for all I knew about guns it could have been a snub-nosed 38.

"Relax sonny. Leave the sword where it is. Take the helmet off real easy-like, and don't give me any reason to think you're one of them."

The surge of adrenalin that had fueled my dive was entirely wasted, and left me jittery as hell. I nearly went entirely limp, but remembering his warning, instead I very slowly and deliberately removed the police helmet I had commandeered earlier. As I did, I winced from the cut on my hand. I set the helmet down in front of me, and made to rise. He froze me with a gesture of his gun.

"Not just yet, sonny. First I want to know how you hurt your hand. And don't even try to bullshit me."

I looked over at my right hand, which I realized I had unconsciously raised, along with my left, in the universal gesture of surrender to a firearm toting opponent. It was torn open just below the base of the middle finger on the back of the hand, in a neat arc. I looked back at the guy, and saw some details for the first time. He was black, looked to be in his late 50s or so, just starting to go grey really, and had a neatly trimmed beard. He was actually seated in one of those crappy plastic chairs with metal legs that apparently ever crappy employer always buys for employees to sit in when necessary. Left of him was what looked like a parts washer, and to his right a well-stocked workbench.

"Zombie old lady in my car bit me. Her false teeth came out along with my fist." I recognized my voice, but realized it sounded a bit off, sort of wooden. The last time it had been like that was when the fire department had asked me to point at the spot where Dave had gone under. I was going into shock. To stop it, I smacked myself across the face with my left hand. "Not yet," I half-growled, "later."

He considered me for a minute. Seemed like an hour to me. Then he seemed to make up his mind, and opened his mouth to speak. Just then the door I'd entered the garage through shuddered as something banged it hard.

"Jackass! You led them here!" he almost snarled as he turned his gun on the door. I took the opportunity to get to my feet, picking up my bag and looping my left hand through the handles, and transferring the key to the left hand. My right pulled the shorter sword out.

He glanced at me as it rasped out of the sheath. "Are you joking? Get rid of those things! Take a gun outta my pouch." I considered it for a second, and then I remembered Joey, pushing against the sword, this sword, that I had lodged in his heart. Bullets weren't going to do squat, unless they were head shots. I'd never fired a pistol in my life. I shook my head.

"No thanks, I'll take my chances with the sword. You might want the other one, it's head shots or nothing with these things. I stabbed one in the heart and it kept coming. The only ones I've taken out were by cutting their heads off or splitting them open. Body shots are a waste of time."

"No shit. I wouldn't be alive if I hadn't figured that out already. Suit yourself, kid. Better be ready, they're coming through." As he finished saying that, the door finally gave way, and four zombies tumbled through the doorway. Three came toward me, and one went for the old man. I dropped my bag and the keys, and put my left hand on the sword. I heard an enormous clap of thunder, and the lead zombie rushing me pitched violently to my left as a sizable chunk of its head evaporated, spraying its fellows with gore. Thunder sounded again, and the trailing one staggered sideways with part of its throat torn away. Then I was in the thick of it, as the middle one reached for me. Thunder seemed to come constantly after that.

I sheared off its left hand, which it seemed not to notice, and kicked it in the chest. It staggered backwards, and the one that had been throat-shot came at me with it. I tried another high slash, and managed to chop halfway through Lefty's head. He went down, but he took my sword with him. I backpedaled frantically as the one my new friend had shot came for me. The longer sword was too hard to draw from my waist quickly, and I couldn't get far enough away to draw it. I ducked around a plow truck, and turned and ran. I heard a crash up front, and he yelled "Son of a bitch! How many of them fuckers are after you? Quit playing around and help me out!" During all of this, his guns kept firing, and he almost punctuated his speech with shots.

I managed to get the larger sword free. Growling, I turned and brought it down in a diagonal slash that entered my pursuer it the right collarbone, and stopped just shy of his liver. I'd never given much though to how strong I was, but that made me wonder. I'd done some weightlifting after a failed romance went spectacularly bad, and although the weight I'd lost during that had come back, my arms had not resumed their former shapelessness. Between that and adrenalin, I'd almost shorn a grown man in half with a dull sword. Shrugging, I placed a boot on his chest, and wrenched the sword free. Without pausing, I charged back the way I came.

As I rounded the truck, all the time hearing a near-continuous volley of gunfire, I almost dropped my sword. At least a dozen corpses were piled up in the doorway, with gaping head wounds (in the cases where they had recognizable heads), some twitching slightly. Several others were trying to climb over them to get at us, and as I watched, another had its head blown off and tumbled back out of sight. I immediately realized my sword was useless in this battle. I sheathed it, collected and sheathed the other one as well, and grabbed my bag and the keys. "Keep them off for a second!" I yelled unnecessarily, "I have an idea!"

I ran to Truck #3, and tried the key. It turned easily in the lock, and I whooped. I hopped up into the cab, put it in Neutral, started it, and hopped back out, leaving my swords and bag behind. All that time the near constant volley of gunfire continued. 'How many guns did this guy have?' I wondered. "All right! Get ready to run for the truck!" I yelled as I ran past him, and wrenched the parts washer away from the wall. It swung out on its casters easily enough, but I found that it was indeed connected to the wall with some wires just like the one at the factory I'd worked in years before. I hastily unplugged what I presumed was the shared lined for the lamp and circ pump, and tossed the cord into the washer's bin. I wheeled it over and roughly lined it up with the doorway, and glanced over at Super-Shooter. I realized that he'd maintained his incredible rate of fire by simply dropping empty guns at his feet and grabbing a loaded one from his apron to replace them. He glanced over at me, and his eyes widened slightly. Maybe he thought I was gonna leave him behind.

"What the hell are you thinking boy? That'll never stop em!" He fired again, and another zombie collapsed onto the pile in the doorway.

I grinned. "Well, not by itself. But maybe when it explodes the fire will keep them back for a second or two. Think you can supply the explosion?"

He blinked, and then grinned. "Damn straight. Just be ready to roll when it goes up." His gun barked twice more, and a woman wearing only a bikini top twitched and fell back out of sight.

I grimaced. "Yeah, about that, can you drive a stick?"

He rolled his eyes and fixed me with a 'you've got to be shitting me, right honkey?' look, and I flushed. It had been almost twenty years since I'd tried to drive a stick, and that had gone rather badly. "Change of plans. I'll push it, you shoot it, and I'll drive. I work for the DoT, that's how I happened to be here." He fired again, and the zombie in the doorway, which had managed to climb all the way up the stack of corpses dropped on top of them, making the passage even narrower. I realized that he was almost playing with them now, picking his shots with leisure.

I gave him an incredulous stare, "How on earth does a frigging snowplow driver learn to shoot like that?"

He grinned. "Actually, I'm the county security chief for DoT buildings and materials. I used to be a NYC cop. Name's Byron James." He held out a hand, and I shook it gladly. He pulled away and fired again, and another zombie's head evaporated as it tumbled out of sight behind the wall of dead flesh.

"Norm. Norm Carson. VERY pleased to meet you." I wasn't lying. In fact I was thinking of getting a sex change so I could bear his children.

He handed me a pistol, holding it by the barrel in his fist, with the barrel pointed at the ceiling. I very carefully accepted it like he was handing me a venomous snake. It was heavy, and squarish. I recognized its design as a semi-automatic. I used both hands to hold it, and sighted it on the doorway.

"You ever fire a pistol before?" he asked, looking at me dubiously.

"Couple rifles, a shotgun once. Years ago. But I think I can manage this." It was true; I had almost no practical experience with firearms. I was fair with a bow, and had owned a pistol crossbow years ago that I was pretty scary with, but I'd never used a firearm shorter than two and a half feet in length.

He shrugged, looking at the doorway. It was rather well blocked at the moment. He went to his knees and rapidly swept the emptied guns into his pouch. "Yeah, guess we ain't got much choice. Take the safety off, and keep it pointed at the ceiling until I'm out of the way. As soon as I let go, I'm going straight for the truck. Fire until it lights up, and then get your ass moving." Finished collecting guns, he went over to the chair he was seated at, and grabbed a heavy bag lying there, and ran to the truck and dumped it all in.

I'd been watching the doorway the whole time, and listening to him move around. As he climbed up the truck and dumped his stuff in, the tope two bodies slipped backwards off the pile in the doorway. The gun I'd had pointed at the ceiling dutifully was suddenly pointing at the door. I found myself squinting across the sights at the top of the pile, my knees slightly bent, and my elbows level with my shoulders. There was movement in my field of vision. Byron's hand reached across my pistol, and did something near the trigger.

"Works a lot better with the safety off. Go ahead."

I blinked, squinted down the sight again, and when I saw a head in the sight, I pulled the trigger back. The gun bucked in my hand, and the stink of gunpowder made me want to sneeze, but the zombie I'd just fired at flopped back missing a significant portion of its forehead. I saw a few more moving back there, and re-aligned the gun with the doorway. One ambled into view and I jerked the trigger reflexively. My shot was low and left, and hit it in the right shoulder. The impact spun it around and nearly tore the left arm off, leaving it dangling by a few pieces of meat. "Jeeze, I didn't know pistols could do this much damage!"

Byron chuckled softly as he braced himself against the parts washer. "Hydrashock bullets. They're useless against body armor and can't penetrate shit, but they tear a great big hole in nice soft flesh and bone. Even a pretty good shot is good enough with those."

My latest target had turned itself around again, and was pawing its way over the barricade of bodies. I sighed, sighted in on him again, and blew the kid's head off rather neatly. "Okay, clear!" I said, raising the gun to point at the ceiling. Myron grunted, started the washer rolling on its casters, and it slammed neatly into the pile of corpses blocking the doorway. He peeled away just before the impact and started sprinting for the truck. I lowered the gun again, as three zombies started for the now partially cleared doorway, and aimed for the tank on the washer. Squeeze. A large dent appeared in the side of the tank, and sparks flew. But no boom. The washer was being pushed out of the doorframe by the trio of crazed cannibal corpses. I fired again, this time aiming for the sink. Another big dent, more sparks, no boom. "Shit man! These bullets ain't working!" I switched targets, dropping a zombie that had squeezed most of the way past the parts washer on the right, and it wedged between the washer and the doorway. Worked fine on them, anyway.

I heard him curse from the truck as gears ground and the engine revved. "Get in!" he yelled, "I'll handle it!" Needing no further encouragement, I turned and ran for the truck, and saw him level a large revolver at the doorway. It barked loud three times, and I saw a bright flash behind me and felt a warm wave hit me from behind. I saw my helmet and scooped it up as I ran past, and rounded the truck, grabbed a handle, and swung up to the door. It started to get really warm, and when I got in, Byron started smacking me around.

"Damn man, you're on fire!" he said, gunning the motor. The truck surged forward, blasting through the roll-up doors with an ear-splitting crash of steel on steel. I went spastic, crushing out the flames on my backside against the seat. With my extra layers of clothing, I hadn't even realized I was lit up. I did manage to crack my head pretty good on the back of the cab though, and that settled me down. Byron whooped as we left, and swung the rig in a wide left circle to the front of the building, passing my car. The old lady's legs had stopped twitching. We rolled over several more zombies as we left, which barely made the cab bounce, and he got a good look at the trail of destruction I'd left in my wake. He gave me an appraising look, and I grinned.

"You do it your way, I'll do it mine. But hey, we both thought of this." I said, slapping the dash. I looked around our new rig with approval. It was hotter than hell in the cab, and I promptly turned the AC on at maximum. Never once did I even consider removing my leather jacket.

He chuckled, "Great minds think alike. Hey! What the hell are you thinking?" he snapped, shutting off the AC. "We can't waste the fuel!" I glared at him at turned it back on, and started fiddling with the radio. "I'm hotter than hell in this get-up, and I'm not taking any of it off." I found Little Stephen's channel again, and was gratified to hear him still on the air.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"Ok, listen up central Pennsylvania. Dave Arnesson is leading a sizeable group of survivors in your region. He's planning on holing up in Davis, and you can reach him at 717-555-2640. All right, that's the last of our Hook-Up and Cook-em-Up groups to report on, we'll repeat the list every hour on the hour. As always you can reach us at 845-555-5309 for on-the-air stuff, and the Survivor's Line is 845-555-1704.

Again, as a warning, Stay away from DC, and be sure to use extreme caution approaching any military units. We have had way too many reports of them just shooting on sight anyone fleeing an infested area. Your best bet is to find a brick building with few ground-floor windows, churches are fantastic for this, and barricade yourself inside, preferably with plenty of supplies. It's been determined by some rather daring individuals that severing the spinal cord above the level of the heart or doing any significant damage to the brain will down the zombies for sure. Anything else you try is your own risk. Tom tells me we have some zombie trouble of our own downstairs, so we're going to go check ourselves out. In case things go badly, well, it's been fun, and it's been real, but honestly it ain't been real fun.

And now, for your listening pleasure, we present the latest recording of the Underground Garage, for once totally commercial-free. Ain't that a kick?"

As the radio went into the standard opening of his shows, I turned it down to where we could talk comfortably and still hear if he came back on.

"Guys got balls, huh?" I asked, fishing for something meaningful to say.

"Hell yeah. Hang on." Byron twitched the wheel, causing the cabin to lurch. His maneuver had included a straggling zombie that our plow blade would otherwise have missed in the mass of ex-humanity we were grinding back into immobility as a public service. The first time he'd done it, I lifted an eyebrow. He'd chuckled, in a strangled sort of fashion, and muttered something about 'protect and serve'. I'd shrugged, and since then, it had been S.O.P. to run down any zombie that presented itself within reach. It made for a bumpy ride, but also a safer place for any survivor's we might have been leaving behind.

We'd been driving for about twenty minutes since leaving the DoT garage, and had made introductions after a fashion. I learned that Byron had been a bachelor, staying at his girlfriend's apartment overnight. She hadn't made it, and I suspect that the reason he'd been sitting in that chair, doing nothing much in particular, with all those big rigs offering him an easy ride out of town, was because he'd been strongly considering eating a bullet. I changed the subject after that, and found out that he was a football nut, which fortunately, I could relate to. Of course, there wasn't going to be a new football season from the looks of things. We ran out of stuff to talk about other than our immediate plans, which amounted to 'get out of the area alive, get a cell-phone somewhere along the way, and pick up any survivors we find'.

We had already wrote down the number of Wayne Miller, who was apparently our local contact for the Survivor's Hotline, and from the sound of him, definitely a great guy to have at your back in a pinch. Unfortunately, his group was based in Auburn, which was about 25 very hard miles from us. They had taken over the prison there, and the thought of taking refuge behind its walls was a comforting thought indeed. Steven had asked about the prisoners, once, and Wayne had rather pointedly refused to answer his question. Byron and I had a running bet as to whether he'd wasted bullets on them, or simply herded them out the doors without telling them what was going on. I was hoping Byron won, because I wouldn't have 'wasted' the bullets, and that would mean a whole lot more zombies wandering around the prison.

Currently, we were threading our way along Rt. 31, trying to get out of Baldwinsville. The abandoned vehicles blocking the streets were making that difficult as we were wary of doing too much damage to our plow blade by shoving them out of our path. Fortunately, we were so high off the ground that only a very few zombies were able to get near the cab, and it was fairly easy to get rid of them. Several hands grasping the various protrusions on my side of the cab, minus their attendant arms, shoulders, and bodies, explained my aching shoulder rather readily.

"Are you sure this road will get us out of town?" Byron asked me for about the fifth time in as many minutes. Him being a relative newbie to these parts, I had been the navigator, a position I felt no need of informing him my friends had strictly proscribed me from ever assuming due to my exceptionally shoddy direction-giving abilities. What they hadn't realized was, since I'd started driving, I had learned a great deal about the local roads and how to get around.

"For the millionth time, yes! Just keep heading west; as soon as we hit the residential areas, this should all clear up. Everyone else will have taken Rt. 48 and blocked access to 690. This will bring us to 690, and we shouldn't have any trouble moving there. It's a four-lane divided highway. There are just not enough cars in the area to turn THAT into a parking lot." At least, I sure as hell hoped there weren't. Apparently the word had reached Baldwinsville just ahead of the zombies, and a pretty nasty traffic snarl was the result. One that a rather large and hungry group of zombies had fallen upon like wolves in the fold at the height of the egress, from the look of things. I was hoping once we got clear of the cars, and made it to the on-ramp, things would be easier.

He muttered something, and I was going to ask him what he'd said, but I was getting fed up with his whining, and decided it wasn't worth the argument that would definitely come from a disclosure. Little Stephen's tape was playing some sort of surfer music, and had this been a normal day, I would have changed the channel. Instead, I sighed, and leaned back and stretched in my seat. "Slow down a little," I murmured, as a group of zombies charged toward us from the right, "let them get ahead of us."

"I saw them myself." he snapped, but his foot came off the gas, and the cab lurched as we slowed down. Six, no seven zombies walked, stumbled or shuffled out of the shattered glass fronting of the strip mall we were approaching, heading for the road, obviously intent on us. I checked my mirror, and saw nothing behind us. "I can't see back with your head in the way!" Byron snarled, and I ducked back. He had apparently checked his side already, and hit the brakes, down-shifting immediately. He reversed gears, and backed us up about twenty-five feet, and shifted into forward gear again. And waited, one foot on the clutch, the other ever-so-lightly revving the diesel.

Our newest fans got to the middle of the sidewalk we'd been driving on mostly, and ambled toward us. Byron released the clutch, and we surged forward as he rapidly up-shifted, accelerating the whole time. We were probably doing 20mph when we hit them. With our 'V' plow raised about a foot and a half off the ground, they rather neatly got knocked down and spread rather evenly to either set of tires. The cab lurched as the front wheels made contact, bumped hard when the second axle met the meat, and vibrated a little when the last axle passed over our latest victims.

"Nice." It had gotten to the point where I was completely numb to what we were doing. All I felt was a tiny surge of satisfaction, coupled with a warm safe feeling, as these latest threats were ended. A part of me wondered just how much therapy I was going to need if we ever got out of this and into a time and place where such things as therapy existed again.

Byron said nothing, and didn't even look over. As we made it through the main intersection of B-ville, where Rt. 48 crossed Rt. 31, the road ahead of us cleared out considerably. Left and right of us, up and down Rt. 48, cars were packed almost bumper to bumper, but ahead on RT. 31, there was only a short line of cars in the opposite lane. Many vehicles here had obviously blown radiators, partially dismembered and gnawed bodies hanging out of windows, and were obviously the vehicles of fleeing refugees, none of whom had escaped.

With the road ahead open, Byron put on some speed. The side roads I looked down were practically devoid of parked cars. It looked like the people actually living in B-ville had gotten out of Dodge themselves, just ahead of the rush from north of town.

"There's a gas station up ahead if you want to chance it, on the right, maybe half a mile." I figured that since I did know this area, I might as well be informative.

Byron looked down at the dash, "Nope, we're almost full. Where's that on-ramp to 690?"

"We want southbound, to get on Rt. 5 to Auburn, so we need to take a right just after the overpass. It's set up weird because the on-ramp is right at a bridge."

We passed the convenience store and gas station, or what was left of it. At some point the pumps had exploded. There was a large area around the pumps covered in dust, and several cars farther away from the pumps were burnt wrecks. The store had burnt as well, and looked like a giant fire pit, with the brick walls still standing. Scorch marks on some of the surrounding houses and withered trees indicated that we'd almost had a major fire in downtown, but without the gasoline from the pumps to keep it going, the fire had flared and died. Mostly. Smoke still drifted up from the wreckage of the store.

"So much for getting gas here."

I grunted, because there really wasn't anything else to say. "About a mile to the freeway."

I looked over at the dash, and saw we were doing 45mph on the now open road. In a 30mph zone, no less. I chuckled, "Careful, you're gonna get a ticket." I let my eyes wander upward, and as we cleared the village limit, the river on the left came into view. As did the marina.

"What the fuck! You didn't mention a marina!" Byron brought the truck to a shuddering, screeching, halt. "We're home free! We grab a boat, take it to the middle of the river, and it'll be smooth sailing from there! Let's go!" He reached for the door handle with his left and a pistol with his right. I grabbed his arm.

"No! It's no good!"

"What are you stupid or something? Those fuckers can't swim! Let's go!"

"You can't get anywhere by boat from here! You'll be trapped! Listen to me!"

He turned, his door half open, and glared at me. "What the hell are you talking about? They can't swim!"

"Yeah, but you can't get anywhere on the water from here without going through the locks, and there's no one to operate the locks. We get in one of those boats and we're not getting off again without a fight."

He pulled the door closed, although not yet latched. "Are you sure? I mean are you dead certain?"

"Yes! Look up there!" I pointed out the windshield. Ahead, a large bridge crossed the river. "That's 690, and you can see it's clear from here!"

Byron took a long look at the boats tied up at the quays, and turned back to me. "All right, might's well stick to-aghhh!" As Byron was speaking, his door suddenly swung open, and hands reached up for him. He was pulled down and began screaming, and pistol shots rang out. I moved over to look down, and saw three zombies attacking him, a fourth lying on its back, minus most of its face. As the one on his left started chewing on his arm, he blasted the one on his chest, taking the top of its head off. The one on his right bit into his neck, and blood sprayed out. He looked up at me, kicked at the one to his left, and shouted, "Go! Just go while you can!"

I reached behind me on the seat, and brought up the shotgun he'd pulled out of his bag. A fine pump shotgun it was, and fully loaded. I swung it down to the one on his left, and neatly blew its head apart. He'd managed to get a gun with his left hand, and put the muzzle under the chin of the one tearing at him, and blew it's head off. Blood continued to fountain from his neck, and his eyes were glazing as I watched. He clamped his right hand over the wound, and struggled to rise.

"Idiot! I told you to go!" He propped himself against the side of the cab, and passed up the guns in his apron. "Here, take these, take them and go!" He looked at me, blood continuing to ooze out from under his fingers. "Don't you get killed like me. Don't you dare. Now go." He reached over and swung the door shut with his left.

I finally managed to find my voice. "Jesus. Oh Jesus, I'm sorry man!"

He looked up at me, one last time. I saw he had another pistol, just one last one, in his left hand. "Go."

I sobbed once, took a deep breath, and blinked my eyes a few times to clear them. "Good-bye, I'm glad I knew you." I turned to face the road, took another deep breath, and looked down at the shifter. I'd only seen the first three gears, but that would be enough. To my left, there was a sound of thunder.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

I'd gotten about half a mile down the road from the marina, and had to slow down. I couldn't see, so I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes to clear them without really thinking about it. Strangling a sob with a curse, I stomped on the brakes, leaned over, and picked them up, wiping my actual eyes as I did, and perched the damn things back on my nose. As I sat up, there was a thump out on the hood.

My vision clear and my wits about me again, I saw that a zom had somehow gotten on top of the truck, and was futilely trying to grab me through the windshield. This one was screaming, which was new. In life, it had been female, about, hell, I couldn't tell, older than 15 and younger than 40 anyway. I grabbed the shotgun from the seat, and changed grips, going for a left-hand shot out the window to save the windshield.

And then I realized that this zom was screaming coherent English. "Help us! For God's sake help us!"

'Another survivor.' I thought and then I thought of Byron, not half a mile behind me, and winced. Not again. Warily, shotgun still trained on her, I asked, "Who exactly is 'we'?" She started to reply, and I silenced her with a wave of the barrel. "No, no forget 'who' just yet. Have you been as much as scratched by one of those things?" There was blood on her blouse, and some on her jeans, bloody handprints where she'd wiped some of it off. She had blonde hair, swept back in a rather sensible ponytail, with some dried blood on it, and a somewhat cleaned area where it looked that she had wiped her forehead with a bloody hand, and someone had cleaned it off later. She had a full, nearly cherubic face, and full lips, and a very slight spare tire, which did nothing to take away from an otherwise exceptionally pretty appearance.

She was watching the barrel of my shotgun with what seemed like utter fascination. It never once pointed anywhere but straight at her face. With an obvious effort, she looked away from the barrel, and caught my eyes with her green eyes. The look that passed between us spoke of horror, death, and loss, but still, the barrel never wavered. I repeated the question, and for emphasis, jacked a fresh shell into the chamber, a harsh mechanical sound, full of ominous promise.

"No. It- it's my husband's…blood. And some of it is…Roger's." Her face crumpled, and she began sobbing softly. From the way she said Roger's name, I assumed he was a son. "My husband was bitten… on the neck. He died a few hours ago, and then he came back…" she gulped, swallowing hard as the next words were torn from deep inside, "…and he killed Roger before I knew what was happening! Oh, God, he killed his own baby! He- he ate him!" She broke down completely at that point, hands hanging limply at her sides, kneeling on the roof of my plow truck, tears streaming down her face.

I lowered the gun. Softly, I asked her again, "Who is 'we'?" but she was beyond answering for the moment. I checked the mirrors, but the four zooms Byron and I had killed at the marina appeared to be the only ones around here for the moment. I reached out, and patted her knee, the only part of her I could reach. "Miss, please. There isn't much time. Who is 'we'? Are there other survivors with you?"

She stopped shaking, and looked at me, an utterly lost and forlorn expression on her face. When she did, something in my heart went 'ping!' I realized in that moment what I must have looked like all those years ago when the officer asked me about the events of the day Dave died. I also realized that she was going into shock, and exactly how useless she was about to become. If there were other people around here, I only had moments to find out. I gave her knee a squeeze. "Yes, two people. We hid together, in there." She sort of nodded toward a house to the right, one of the last before the bridge. "They were afraid to come out because you pushed the black man into the zombies, but I don't care anymore, I just don't want to die… like that."

I blinked, and my jaw dropped. "You, they, thought that was deliberate?" I swallowed hard, and considered what it must have looked like to an observer. I shuddered. "No. No, he wanted to go for a boat. We argued about it a little too long is all, and some of them caught up to us."

She seemed to come back a little, and her face darkened. "Ed explained to me about the locks. Is it true, you really can't get anywhere useful on a boat on the river?"

"Yes, it's true. Please, come inside before…just get in here." I hastily swept the guns into the console, and helped her in through the window. In the process, I had to get a little 'familiar' with her, and mumbled an apology. For her part, she didn't even seem to notice.

I backed the rig up a ways, rolled closer to the house she indicated, and set the brake. I called out to the house, "If you want out of here, come now! This bus is leaving in two minutes, with or without you!"

One of the curtains over the front window shifted slightly, and I saw part of a woman's face peering out. The front door opened a crack, and a man, doubtless 'Ed' of boat and lock system knowledgeability fame, appeared in the door accompanied by a rifle barrel. He shouted back, "And how do we know you won't throw us to those things the minute it gets convenient?"

I'd frankly had enough of 'Baldwinsville après zombies' to last a lifetime. "You don't. So stay and throw yourselves for all I care!" I ground some gears looking for first, and my newest passenger sparked up a little.

"Ed! It wasn't like that! The other man wanted a boat, and they stayed still too long talking about it! Let's go! Nancy, come on!"

Well, at least I knew who they were now. 'Ed' closed the door and 'Nancy' disappeared behind the curtain. I'm guessing it was a short conversation. The door swung open a moment later, and Ed and Nancy came out, each with a suitcase and a garbage bag. It was about to get crowded. Each had a rifle slung over their shoulder, and Ed had a pistol on his hip. Both were dressed for hunting, in tough-looking clothes with camouflage patterns on them.

They piled in, and it ended up with Ed having a woman on either knee. The cab of a snowplow is not made for passengers. I was not very pleased with the situation, but took off anyway, jerking the truck forward. Nancy almost fell off Ed's lap, and…

"What's your name, anyway?" I asked the woman who had just landed in my lap. The distraction of the last few minutes had temporarily staved off the onset of psychic shock, and she managed to extricate herself. Once upright, she made an attempt at formal introductions.

"You first. Mr.?"

"Carson. Norm Carson. I'll spare you the 'pleased to meetcha' crap."

Not remotely dissuaded, she plowed right into it, "Ed and Nancy Richardson, this is Norm Carson. My name is Emily Hudson-Rainier...well, just Hudson I guess." She lapsed into silence, but at least she didn't start crying again.

For his part, Ed was bearing up well, for an apparently colossal prick. "Norm, eh? Do you even know how to drive this thing?" he asked between sickening lurches and grinding noises.

I grinned, and shot him a look. "Geeze Ed, does it look like it? Byron back there was the competent one. Too bad for you guys you got stuck with me. But hey, anytime you want to take over, be my guest."

Not wanting to talk anymore at the moment, I turned the radio back on. Surfer music. "Damn. Hope he makes it."

"Little Steven?" Nancy asked, somewhat nervously. I realized she was trying to play peacemaker, and decided to let her.

"Yeah. I'm making for Auburn, try to hook up with Wayne Miller and his bunch."

"At the prison?"

"Sounds like as good a place as any other to me. You have any better ideas?" I was genuinely curious, but it'd have to be something absolutely fantastic for me to change plans.

"Well, Ed has a pilot's license; we were going to try for Hancock..."

My foot almost slipped off the gas. "Where would you go if you got a plane?" This was sounding pretty damn good, honestly.

"We actually have a plane, amphibious. We'd fly up to a camp on a mountain lake, wait it out."

I thought about it. "How would you avoid zombies?"

"Island camp."

"What about winter? What if the lake freezes over?"

Nancy frowned and looked at Ed. He seemed at a loss, apparently that hadn't occurred to him. "Maybe they'll be dead by then, or we could fly somewhere else before the lake freezes."

I nodded. "Yeah, that could work. But why not go there first then?"

He almost gritted his teeth, and it was obvious he wanted to, "Because I hadn't considered the lake freezing, so I didn't plan that far ahead. Happy?"

I sighed. "Hey man, I planned as far ahead as going to the DoT to steal a truck. If you ask me, you're ahead in cool points, ok?"

While all this had been going on, I had driven to the on-ramp, turned onto it, and made our lumbering way up the ramp, circling to the right, and eased onto an empty highway, heading south. I 690 would take us to route 5, and that would take us right into Auburn.

It got quiet for a minute. Emily huddled in on herself, slid off Ed's knee, and sat in the console, and leaned against me, resting her head on my shoulder. If I knew anything about post-traumatic stress disorder, and I did, her next move was to sleep. Soft snoring in my right ear confirmed that I did indeed know my PTSS. Ed managed a chuckle, a forced-sounding thing, and reached around his wife (or so I assumed), offering me his hand. I extricated my right from under Emily, and shook his. He had a firm, dry, grip, and didn't do any macho, test-your-strength bullshit, which suited me just fine. Peace. Quietly, he asked "How long do you think she'll sleep?"

"Couple hours. She'll be very disoriented when she wakes up; and probably in serious denial. Might believe it's all been a nightmare that she just woke up from. At which point someone ought to sit with her and talk her through it, let her 'bleed out the poison'."

Ed and Nancy were both staring at me. "Are you a psychologist?" Nancy asked. She had a very hopeful look on her face.

I felt bad telling them the truth. "No, but I've been seeing one for a while to deal with PTSS; and I'm familiar with the healing process. I doubt the doc's going to get out of this, he's pretty old. Shame, a lot of people are going to need shrinks desperately when this is all over with."

Nancy had shifted around to get more comfortable. She was resting on Ed's right leg, her knees in her face almost, feet resting on a suitcase, with her back to the door. I saw a problem with that. I'd finally managed, though, to get a good look at both of them. Ed was a fairly average-looking guy, late 30s to mid 40s, dark brown hair, no trace of baldness, damn him to hell, with a neatly trimmed mustache. Nancy was a red-head, with typically curly hair, caught up in a bun with a decent length hanging from it, and bangs almost to her sparking blue eyes. She was rather pretty, and looked to be Ed's age. Both were trim, athletic types, damn their eyes.

Back to business though. "Hey, it seems pretty clear here, Ed. You want to move that luggage, and maybe the ladies, to the back, and you can ride shotgun? We're probably going to have to fight our way through town."

Ed considered it for a moment. "Good idea, but I'd just as soon ride shotgun from up there anyway. And she should sleep," he nodded, indicating Emily, "leave her here, I say." Nancy nodded enthusiastically at the last.

"All right. Let's make this fast. Nancy, ever handle a shotgun before? A little more stopping power than your deer rifle, I'd guess."

She laughed, and fished through her small purse, coming out with a billfold, from which she extracted a laminated card. She held it up in front of me, and I scanned it quickly.

_Nancy Richardson is a member in good standing of the National Rifle Association, and entitled to all the rights and privileges thereof._

She picked up one of the rifles they'd had slung when they got in, and held it out for me to inspect. I knew it was a rifle, and could see it was bolt-action. That was it. "This is a Remington SPR-94 combination 12-gage shotgun and .22 caliber rifle. It has excellent close-range stopping power and pinpoint long-range accuracy. I use it hunting boar."

I glanced at Ed, who was smirking. "Let me guess, you too?" I asked.

"Lifetime membership."

I frowned. "Jesus, maybe you knew him."

"Who?"

"That black guy you thought I threw out of the truck? His name was Byron…James. Can't believe I almost forgot his name! He worked as head of security for the DoT, used to be a New York City cop. Finest shot with a pistol I've ever even heard of. Big believer in the 2nd Amendment too. Real nice guy."

Ed and Nancy shared a look, and shrugged. "Nope, sorry, can't say we did. But not every cop is a member you know. Just a lot of 'em."

I grunted. We were passing the Thruway access. There were a lot of miles yet to go before we reached Auburn. After this exit was a long, clear stretch of highway, bordered by chain-link fence. Perfect for a Chinese fire drill.

I slowed down, "Okay, make this fast as possible. I'm going to keep a couple pistols and the shotgun down here, take the rest of it up top, except my sword."

We rolled to a soft stop, and Ed popped open the door. Nancy pivoted on her ass, and slid down out of sight, cradling the shotgun like an old hand. Ed passed their stuff down, eased over, lifted Emily out of the console and softly into the passenger seat, buckled her in, and tucked a brace of pistols into his belt, passing several more to his wife. He then rolled up the window, locked the door, and gently but tightly closed it. I watched in the rearview mirror as he and Nancy tossed the stuff up into the dumper, and clambered up. A metallic thump on the roof told me they were all set, and I once again lurched forward, albeit with a little less grinding, and a touch more smoothly. I was getting better at driving a stick. Emily had slept through the whole thing.

I looked over at her, and noticed a strand of hair was hanging down over her face. Gently, I smoothed it away. I wondered how many others there were like her out there. People who'd seen unbelievably horrific things, and would be forever changed because of them. Never mind the dead, the living were going to be in pretty sorry shape. It occurred to me then that I'd just witnessed fulfillment of a Biblical prophecy, "…let the dead bury themselves'. Revelations, I think. It's been a long time since I've been to church.

Church! I slammed on the brakes, and the large truck shuddered to a top. I heard angry shouts from up top, and Emily stirred next to me. I began to turn the rig around, and Ed landed feet first on the hood, hanging onto the roof, and shouted in at me.

"What the hell are you doing!"

I rolled the window down and going slowly as we were, made my way through the median and onto the north-bound lane, heading back the way we came. "Churches. Little Stephen said churches made good hideouts because of their building styles."

"So what?"

"So there's a Methodist Church not far from here, and people may be holed up in it, and we can transport a lot more than four people!"

"Yeah? Well they're there, and we're here. Turn this thing around again, and let's get going."

"No."

His right hand dropped to his belt, and drew a pistol. I watched him thumb the safety off, and level it at me. "Try again."

By way of answer, I accelerated. He cocked back the hammer, and adjusted the aim slightly. I found that by shifting my head slightly, I could see down the length of the barrel with my right eye. I looked away from the gun, into his eyes. "No. And what do you think is going to happen if you pull that trigger? More importantly, what's going to happen if I slam on the brakes again?" I felt pressure on my right elbow. I spared a glance; Emily had awoken, and was clutching my elbow with some impressive hand strength. Even through the leather jacket I was still stubbornly wearing, I could almost feel her nails digging in.

I heard a muffled thump on the roof, and Ed looked up. His wife said something I couldn't make out, and he shot something back. It wasn't very clear, but seemed to be of the 'keep out of this' variety. He glared up over my head, momentarily reminding me of my brother, who tended to, when excited about a topic he was discussing with you, slowly shift his eyes upward until he seemed to be talking to someone perched about a yard above your head. Then he looked at me again, muttered something I assume was foul, and uncocked the pistol and tucked it back in his waistband. I heaved a sigh of relief as he clambered back up into the dumper, and looked at the controls for tipping it with a semi-longing glance. Emily's fingers dug in a little more, and I turned my attention back to the road.

"What was all that? Why are we going back?" I spared her a look. She'd been out for maybe twenty minutes, and still looked like hell.

"I need to check a place that may have other survivors. I just can't leave without trying."

The pressure on my elbow eased slightly, "Is it far?"

"No, it's the Methodist Church on 370. Maybe three miles off the highway. 5 minutes tops."

Minutes later, I took the exit and slowed down but never stopped, turning left onto 370, passing under the bridge, and accelerating immediately. Just a few miles.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Farms rolled past on either side, but nothing moved except the grasses and leaves swaying in the breeze. Next to me, Emily was shivering. I unzipped my jacket, and the chill of the AC turned the sweat to ice-water on my skin. At first it felt good, but then it just felt cold and clammy. Like death. I started to shrug my left shoulder out of the jacket, and Emily moved to help. She held it folded in her lap at first.

"Put it on. S'why I took it off."

"Oh." She lifted it, and wrinkled her nose for just a second, and then shrugged herself into it anyway. She was tiny in it, her hands lost in the sleeves.

"Sorry about the smell, but you looked cold."

She said nothing at first, and then almost gave a slight jump, as if just hearing me. "Oh. Oh it's okay. I am. Cold." She was quiet for a moment, and then all of a sudden a stricken look crossed her face. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean anything!"

I patted her on the knee, my hand returning to the shifter. "Don't worry about it, I've been in that jacket for what seems like hours, it can't possibly smell good." She flinched at the touch, and managed to draw her knees up to her chest, her feet on the seat almost tucked under her in spite of the seat belt. I sighed inwardly. 'Way to go, Norm, she thinks you're hitting on her.'

I drove in silence, taking in the surroundings. Most of the dwellings this far out were trailers. Pretty lousy places to try to fend off a ravening horde, but I saw little evidence of zombie activity, other than the total lack of people. Not even vehicles parked in driveways most of the time. Signs of hasty abandonment abounded: an abandoned car here and there stuffed with bags, clothes strewn on lawns, suitcases broken open on the road. But something was missing.

Emily realized it first. "Don't rednecks usually have pickups?" she mumbled. I spared a glance at her. She was cradling the shotgun, business end pointed at her window, peering intently at the countryside. To be honest, that confused the hell out of me. The last thing I'd expected from her was purposeful action.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Huh? What has that got to do with why there are no pick-ups?" she asked, brow furrowed.

"Nothing, sorry. Yeah, I noticed that too. They must have gotten enough advanced warning around here to load up and take off. Makes sense they'd take the trucks." Inside, I was genuinely confused. I'd thought my own therapy sessions with Doc Everson had made me an expert on psychology. Clearly, I knew shit-all about absolutely nothing, as usual, when it came to women. Emily lapsed into silence, and seemed to nod off again.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Emily looked over at Norm when she was sure he wasn't looking. He was watching the road nervously again, eyes shifting all over as he drove. He seemed to be trying to do fifty things at once in his head, and from the look on his face, none of them were going well. She wondered how the Richardsons were doing up top. She settled back and sighed. This day had started so well…

"Honey, where's my red tie?" Marcel asked, as he buttoned his shirt. He looked at her in the mirror, and his eyes met hers. He smiled, and she could tell he was looking her up and down as she lay on the bed, stretching sleepily and stifling a yawn. The sheet had crumpled up and left her hip and thigh exposed, and he was eyeing them like a hungry dog staring at a soup bone.

She laughed, and threw her pillow at him. "Keep those eyes in your head. I know all about your devious wicked ways." She heard Roger gurgle happily in his crib next to the bed. He always gurgled like that when he heard mommy and daddy. "Are you trying to knock me up again?"

Marcel grinned wickedly, and put on his best 'Evil French Snob' sneer, and laughed like a TV Frenchman. Then he exaggerated his almost non-existent accent into a parody of Frenchness, and cackled, "Haw, haw, haw, mademoiselle, you are 'elpless in my powers, no?"

She rolled her eyes, "Honey, you're going to be late for work…" she feebly protested.

Marcel reached into the closet, and withdrew his arm with a flourish. The tie he'd been after streamed out, fluttering in his grasp. More of the ridiculous French accent: "Haw, haw, haw, I have fawned zee rouge tie, and now I weel tie yew oop weez eet, haw, haw, haw."

She shrieked in fake protest, and the next half hour was spent in a very credible and extremely enjoyable attempt at knocking her up. As Marcel quickly dressed (wearing the red tie that had so recently been used for carnal purposes), she got up, made sure Roger was okay (asleep), and slipped downstairs to try to whip Marc up something fast for breakfast.

He only stopped at the table for a sip of coffee, pecked her on the cheek, and headed for the door, jokingly scolding her. "Temptress! I'm late!"

Emily feigned innocence, "But, but, I was helpless in your clutches, vile man!" She put on her best hurt face, and trembled her lower lip convincingly. She wanted a second round, and she knew how to get it.

Marcel paused at the door, and looked longingly at her. "Oh, woman! What did I ever do to deserve you? You're going to be the death of me!" He opened the door behind him as he spoke, and she saw Andy, the postal carrier for their route, standing on the porch.

Realizing there'd be no round two, she sighed, rising to get the mail, and Marcel turned just in time for his neck to meet Andy's teeth. Emily screamed, and upstairs Roger began to cry. Marc struggled with Andy as blood poured from the wound. Instinctively, Emily grabbed the old, clunky black phone on the vestibule table and slammed it down on Andy's head, screaming the whole time. His skull split under the impact and the phone shattered. Marc staggered back inside, and Emily saw people wandering around, bloody and horrible. Many turned toward the house, and she slammed the door shut and locked it.

She turned to Marc, still screaming, starting to go hoarse. His eyes were glazing over, but he slapped her across the cheek, stinging her back to her senses. "Emma! Call 911! Then come up and help me in the bathroom!"

"Yes, yes, all right!" Emily said, her hand pressed to her cheek. Marc had never done that before, other than in play, and it stunned her. She blinked, and turned to the kitchen and the phone. Marc pulled himself up the stairs unsteadily.

She grabbed the phone and stabbed 9-1-1, running for the stairs. The line rang, and then a voice answered: "9-1-1 operator, how can I help you?"

"Our mailman attacked my husband! I hit him in the head. I think he's dead!"

As she spoke, she heard a sudden clamor on the other end of ringing telephones, and many voices answering phones. The voice on the line came back immediately. "I'm showing your address as 824 Sycamore Street, is that correct?"

"Yes, please hurry, I saw other people on the street acting all crazy!"

"All right, we're sending an ambulance and police. Please-" Above a loud thump and crash sounded in the bathroom.

Emily dropped the phone as she entered the bathroom. Marc was lying on the floor, holding a blood-soaked towel to his neck. He was having small seizures. Emily got him up and half-carried, half-dragged him to their bed, and went to the phone. Marc's breathing was ragged, raspy.

"..on the line? Hello?" the voice from the call-center was asking. It sounded eerily tinny from the bathroom floor.

"I'm sorry, my husband fell. He's losing a lot of blood, please hurry!"

"Help is on the way, ma'am. I have to hang up now; we're getting a lot of calls all of a sudden." The line went dead in her hands.

"Emma." Marc gasped. "Emma." She ran to his side. Marc's eyes were glassy and unfocussed. His breathing was shallow, and his skin stood out in sweat. The hand-towel covering his throat was soaked through with blood, and more welled out rhythmically, in time with his slowing pulse, she realized.

"I'm here, baby, I'm here!" She took his free hand in hers, kissed it, and clasped it to her breast. Tears blurred her vision. "I'm right here, Marc. Please stay with me!"

"Can't see… can't… feel, my legs." His voice was a hoarse croak. His breaths were shuddering gasps. Roger was wailing in the crib. "Want to see Roger. See… my son."

Sobbing, Emily scooped Roger up from his crib, and held him in front of Marc. Roger clamed a bit, still sobbing, but more quietly now that mama was holding him. He looked down, and saw his father. "Da da!"

Marc grinned, a grimace through the pain. He coughed, and a spasm twitched him. "I win. First words. I win." He sighed, shuddered, and lay still.

Emily dropped to her knees by the bed, holding Roger to her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and Roger began wailing again. She rested her head on Marc's chest and sobbed. Then she heard a siren approaching from down the street.

"They're here, Marc! They're here! It's not too late! It's not!" Gently but quickly, she put Roger in his crib, and sprinted down the stairs to the front door. She barely noticed the blood on the broken windows as she pulled the front door open. Out in the street, people were staggering toward the sirens, many bleeding. Some looked like they shouldn't be moving at all their injuries were so severe. Down the street, she saw the police and an ambulance. The police car got out, and the officers began motioning for people to make way for the ambulance.

What happened next was horrifying. Emily gasped as the first few people reached the police, and tore into them, biting and clawing. Shots rang out, and a few people fell. The ambulance stopped, backed up, and turned away down the street, which was rapidly filling with injured people all moving straight for the two screaming policemen. Emily screamed as the ambulance began to turn.

"Noooo! Here! He's in here! You have to help him! You have to save Marc!"

Some of the crowd headed for the officers turned toward the sound of Emily's voice. She realized that they weren't coming to help. She slammed the door shut again. Upstairs, the baby had stopped crying. She ran upstairs again, into the bedroom.

Marc was…


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Ahead, I could see the church, on top of a hill on the left side of the road. From here, it looked fairly normal, but I could see an awful damn lot of pickups parked outside it, some on the lawn. From behind it, a small plume of smoke lazily drifted skyward. I felt good and bad about my decision. People had definitely come here, but were any left alive?

I let my foot come off the gas and down-shifted pretty smoothly, and let the hill slow us down. No shuddering this time. Emily was out again, a faint smile on her lips. Hopefully the worst was behind her. A couple soft thumps on the roof came, and I opened my window a bit. Sure enough, Ed leaned over and spoke through it. "So, how do we want to approach this?"

"Well, I drive by real slow, and we look for signs of life. If we see zombies, we run for it. Otherwise, we load 'em up and then run for it."

"And if there's too many?"

"The extras can follow in pickups, and I'll clear a path for them."

"That's it?"

"I never said I was an expert at this shit. You have a suggestion, let's hear it."

"When we get there. Batten the hatches."

We were almost to the top of the hill. The church driveway was just ahead, crammed with pickups and a few other vehicles.. There were no bodies in sight, but I saw a few suspicious-looking smears of what was probably blood. Nothing moved, on the grounds or in the windows. I kept rolling, slowly. We passed the entrance, the front yard, the exit. Still nothing stirred. The source of the smoke, a round blackened spot at the corner of the parking lot (which was oddly clear on this side) came into view as we passed slowly by. It appeared to be the remnants of a bonfire, and I had a guess as to what was burnt there. The down slope of the hill was just ahead. I stopped the truck, and set the brake.

Another light thump on the roof. I opened the window, and leaned out. Ed poke his head over and jerked in fright. "Dammit! What are you doing?"

"Stopping. What's all this look like to you?"

"Like someone else picked up your survivors. Can we go now?"

"Looks like that to me too, but who? And when?"

He glared at me incredulously, "Who cares? They're safe, we're not, let's go!"

"Movement in the third window, ground floor!" came Nancy's voice from above. I looked, and sure enough, a curtain was swaying slightly, as if someone had peeked out and let it slip back into place.

Then the window, glass, panes, and curtains, crashed outward, just as Emily began screaming behind me.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

I couldn't see what had come through the window; it was still covered in curtains. It didn't matter anyway with Emily screaming like that. I was turning to see what was up, when something smashed me in the forehead, and my vision went white. Whatever it was totally rung my bell: I could hear and feel (mostly pain in my head), but couldn't see or move.

I felt someone, almost certainly Emily, who was still screaming, but beginning to pepper her incoherent screams with curses, scramble over me and open my door and slide out. Then I heard a shotgun blast, and then Nancy said something that sounded like 'Cover her!', and the sharp crack of rifles, punctuated at odd intervals by shotgun blasts.

Then it all went black.

…

…

…

I was slapped roughly awake, by Nancy as it turned out. She was holding a wet rag to my head with her right hand and slapping my cheek with her left. "Wake up, dammit! Good! Thought we were gonna have to dump you for a minute there. Ed's got a bad back, and you're too heavy to move for me and Em."

I blinked a few times as my vision swam in and out of focus. I felt like I'd been hi-karated in the head by a mule. "What hit me? A Buick?"

Nancy gave a little strangled chuckle, and with a mischievous gleam in her eye, said, "It was Emily, in the truck cab, with a shotgun butt. You're lucky she didn't crack your skull."

I felt nauseous, but turned my head to the right anyway. Ed was there, sort of half-kneeling on the seat, eyeing me warily. "You all right?"

By way of answer, I threw up in my mouth, gagged a little, and spat it left of Nancy. "Where's Emily?" I managed, as the world ran laps in my skull.

"Upstairs. She and I will be taking topside, along with the kids. Can you drive like that?"

'Kids?' I thought, 'What kids?' I considered the question. Instead of answering it, I asked Nancy, "How do you know she didn't?"

"Well," she began, "if you had a skull fracture, you probably wouldn't have woken up. Besides, she hit you in a thick part of the skull. Can? You? Drive?"

I covered her hand on the rag on my head with mine, and she slid it out, leaving me holding it there. Gently, I tilted my head this way and that, and blinked a few times. "Am I bleeding?" I asked, still avoiding the question.

"No, she actually didn't manage to break the skin, but you're going to have a prize bruise."

Foolishly, I nodded, and nearly blacked out. "I think, no. To the driving. Not for a while, anyway."

"Then you need to slide over. We have to go soon. The gunfire could bring more zombies anytime."

I'd learned my lesson, "O-kay. Let me do this." Holding my head rigidly still, I mechanically swung my legs over the console, and hitched my butt onto it and over to the passenger seat. The effort put sweat on my brow, but I didn't pass out. Ed looked me over briefly, hitched my belt, and shut the door. Nancy swung into the driver's seat, and expertly shifted into gear. The truck swung through a sickeningly bumpy turn as Ed clambered up into the dumper. I concentrated hard on not puking.

We were headed back to 690. I leaned back in my seat, and closed my eyes.

"Eyes open! Sit up!" Nancy barked.

I managed to open my eyes, and used them to glare at her. Other than that, I didn't budge a muscle. "Why?"

"Because I don't know if you have a concussion or not, so until we can get a doctor to look you over, you shouldn't sleep." she snapped.

I groaned, and squeezed my eyes shut. They blinked open of their own accord, and I slowly turned my head her way. "What kids?"

"If you sit up, I'll tell you."

I thought about it for a minute. Was I curious enough to stay awake and listen?

"Well?"

"I'm thinking." Sadly, the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to know. Groaning as piteously as I could manage, I struggled to a less boneless posture.

"Oh, knock it off. You'd think someone rifle-butted you in the head the way you're carrying on."

"Oh. Oh, I get it. That was intended as humor, right?" I'd managed to achieve a fully upright posture by now.

She ignored me, grinning like some damn Cheshire cat. "Good. So anyway, here's what happened while you were getting 40 winks…"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

While Ed was talking with our fat-assed idiot driver Norm, I watched the church carefully, scanning the windows and grounds for motion. I noted that none were open facing the road or the side we could see from here. The north side of the church was flanked by an empty parking lot with the remnants of a bonfire, probably barbequed zombies, in the corner farthest from the church.

That several large vehicles had recently churned the gravel there was apparent, but I noticed that at least one of them had been equipped with tank tracks by the deep gouges in the pavement where it entered the lot from the road. There was a faint dimple pattern there as well, coming from the north, which meant it was probably based at Fort Drum. My first thought was: 'We ought to find out if Fort Drum is still in business or has been overrun.'

Then I saw a curtain flutter in the third window from the left on the ground floor. The windows were about six feet above ground level, which made for an admirable defensive situation. From my vantage point in the truck's dumper, I could have seen into the room if the curtains had been drawn aside, but no one at ground level could have seen anything that wasn't next to and above the window.

I called it out to Ed, and he started moving back to me, and I heard muffled screaming just as something smashed out the window. From here, I could see a teen boy had thrown a chair through the window, and with the curtain partially gone, I could also see that a door behind him was barricaded, and three smaller children were with him.

Ed got back to the dumper and hopped in, as Norm's door opened, and Emily slid down into the road. I could see she had the shotgun Norm had offered me earlier, and she walked, well, strode, into the front yard of the church, and walked onto a picnic table under the smashed window. She ignored Ed and I, and raised the shotgun. The boy helped the other three kids out the window, and I saw the next eldest couldn't have been older than eight, and the other two were practically toddlers. As the last was being helped down, she fired into the room over the teenager at something I couldn't see from my angle, and jacked another shell into the chamber. A window on the wall facing the parking lot burst outward, and a body tangled in the curtains tore them out, giving us a view into the room. Another barricaded door was being forced open by zombies, and they were squeezing through the part they'd managed to force aside. Emily fired again, and another tumbled sideways.

The boy slid out the window and landed hard on the ground, crying out in pain. The other three children tried to help him up. He struggled to rise once, and lay back, motioning them to the truck. Emily dropped the shotgun and hopped off the table. As she bent to assist him, the barricade was pushed completely out of the way, and a horde of zombies tumbled into the room.

Ed was looking down at the cab, probably wondering what our driver was doing. I sighted on a zom, capped it, and yelled to him to help cover Emily. We sent one after another to the floor with headshots, but more took their places fighting each other for a place at the window to get at the children.

Emily put an arm under the boy, and got him to his feet. He managed one step, and his legs buckled pitching him to his hands and knees. Blood poured from his back, and shards of glass stuck out all over it.

Ed ran out of ammo next to me, and instead of reloading, reached for the special bag. I reloaded fast, and managed to get a shot off just in time as one zom managed to get half out the window. It dangled half in and half out, as others pressed in behind it.

Emily was tugging on the boy, as the other children ran for the truck.

"Ed! We need to save that for emergencies!"

He looked up at me as he slapped a red-tipped shell into the M-79 and unfolded it. "This qualifies." It clicked smartly as it locked in position. Without even pausing, he sighted in on the window over the table Em had been playing Rambo on.

The smaller children had reached the back of the truck. Cursing Norm for not helping, I ran back to help them up, ducking down as I did.

With a hollow FOOMP sound, and a lazy trickle of smoke from the barrel, the grenade launcher we'd picked up 'illegally' from a quartermaster at a certain not-to-be-named military base lobbed a 40mm high explosive shell into the window, knocking a zom off its feet. Seconds later, all the windows in the room blew out, accompanied by chunks of burning zombie and gouts of flame.

The explosion knocked Emily to her knees beside the boy, who went prone. She grabbed his arms and dragged him to the back of the truck on his belly. Blood continued to well from his back, soaking his shirt and leaving a bloody smear behind him. I turned and checked him over. Some of the glass had gone deep into his upper back, almost certainly puncturing his lungs. Blood frothed from his blue lips as he gasped, and I could hear sucking noises from the wounds on his back. They stopped, along with his breathing.

"He's gone, Emily." I said, as she struggled to get him up and then presumably into the truck somehow.

She turned on me eyes blazing. I hadn't seen her this alive since we found her, wandering in B-ville. "No! He's coming with us!" She hugged him to her, covering the jacket Norm had apparently surrendered to her in blood. I saw she'd managed to make it fit by rolling the cuffs up a few times. "He's coming with us. We'll get him to a doctor. It's not too late. It's not too late."

"It is. His lungs were punctured when he fell out the window. He landed on the glass. Look at it." I took him gently under the arms, held him up and out from her. She looked down. Looked at me. Tears filled her eyes.

"Please. We can't leave him, for them."

"We won't." I looked around. The church was going up fast. Smoke billowed out the windows of the room the children had holed up in. Flames were visible in several other windows, even on the second floor. The grenade had probably blown part of the floor and ceiling out, creating a chimney that fanned the flames. The attic vents were pouring out smoke. "We'll put him in one of the trucks. They won't see him or get at him there."

The first tear fell out of her right eye, and she nodded. Wordlessly, we took him by the arms and legs, and carried him to an old Ford pickup. It wasn't locked, so we simply laid him on the seat, and closed the door. Emily bowed her head and murmured something. I grabbed her hand and ran her back to the truck, and got her up to look after the youngsters. Ed wasn't much good with kids, part of why we'd never had any, I suppose. I still hadn't seen or heard from Norm. And we needed to get moving.

When I got to the cab, he was sprawled in the seat, head lolling on his shoulders. If his breathing wasn't so loud I might have thought he was dead. I hopped up onto the running board, and checked him over. There was a spreading bruise slightly forward of his right temple. The skin was slightly torn, but not bleeding, just oozing plasma like a burn. He didn't look very good.

"Ed?" I called up to the dumper. He poked his head over the side, looking almost relieved.

"Yeah? Are we gonna move soon?"

I lowered my voice: "Small problem. Norm's out cold. Looks like he got decked pretty hard, maybe by some flying debris..." I tapered off. Something was wrong about that. Right temple! He was still snugly buckled in. I looked at the bruise, which was darkening and spreading almost visibly. The main part of it bore a strong resemblance to a rifle butt. "Bring a canteen and a shirt down."

"Want the first-aid kit? I think it's got smelling salts in it."

"Nah, it's kinda buried." I staved off his disapproving look, "Sorry hon. Our plans for the collapse of civilization didn't include walking dead. I was expecting biker gangs or police state terrorism, not Night of the Living Dead."

He had ducked back while I said that, and reappeared seconds later, "Hey, if Little Stephen is right, we'll have the police state terrorism. Catch." A t-shirt came down, and I caught it easily, going for the leading portion with the canteen in it. As he clambered down, I wetted the shirt and folded it into a compress, and tried to bring our driver around. "Norm! Norm! Wake up, Norm!" He groaned and stirred slightly.


	11. Chapter 11

He hung his headphones on the stand. "All right Tom, let's do this." Steve said. I noticed what seemed to be a slight shake in his hands. End of the frickin' world zombie apocalypse, and all Little Stephen was showing was a slight shake of his hands, and for all I know that was my eyes playing tricks on me.

"First things first. Our floor is clear, so let's hit the head and then get some food first." I replied. Damned if I was going to be eaten on an empty stomach!

"How do you know that?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. We reached the men's room, and he held the door.

"Because the stair doors only open for a fire alarm activation after 15 seconds, and there's no fire alarm, and I've got all the elevators called to this floor with chairs in the doors holding them here. Been that way since last night when the city went nuts."

"What made you think of that?" he asked, looking impressed. I only grunted at first, and grimaced ruefully, as I'd made it to a stall, and was doing my business. I finished and washed my hands quickly. When he finished, I answered.

"Patti and I were sitting around not long after 9-11 talking about what we'd do if there were a terrorist attack here. I figured slowing them down by taking away the elevators would be pretty effective, and she pointed out that the alarms on the stairs would give plenty of warning if they decided to come up that way." I'd seen Patti last night, in the lobby. She'd almost made into the elevator before the door closed in her blood-caked face.

"You interns have way too much free time." he mused. "So, what's for lunch?"

"Beats me, wanna try the fridge first, or the vending machines?"

"Let's try the fridge. Somebody's leftovers sound a lot better than machine crap."

'Somebody's leftovers' turned out to be a Tupperware container with spaghetti and meat sauce, which Steve claimed, and a brown bag with an apple and two corned beef sandwiches in Zip-locks that I savored.

Finished, I gathered up my stuff to toss it, but Steve laid a hand on my wrist. "You might want to save the zip-locks, man. They may come in handy later." I thought about it. He was right, no one was gonna manufacture any more any time soon, and clear plastic bags that kept out germs might be really useful. I folded the paper bag neatly, shook the crumbs out of the baggies, and was looking for a cupboard to put them in while he washed out his Tupperware.

Just then, the fire alarm went off.


	12. Chapter 14

Placeholder for Chapter 12. Hopefully a fan saved it, because I didn't.


	13. Chapter 12

We lapsed into silence for a while. Outside, farm country rolled by on the right, and Baldwinsville slipped away on our left. I looked around in the cab, resting my eyes on my swords and Byron's pistols in the console, wondering how soon I'd need them again. I frowned.

"Hey, where's Byron's shotgun?" I asked, looking around rapidly, and regretted it instantly, as my skull throbbed. I winced and closed my eyes, pressing the wet shirt onto my forehead again. "Ouch. Remind me not to move my head again, ever."

Nancy cocked her head, thinking. "Umm, I think Emily dropped it by the window the kids came out of. We forgot to get it before we left. Sorry."

"S'all right," I mumbled, "was never fond of the damn things anyway." Oops. "No offense."

Nancy smiled slightly, "None taken. They're 2nd Amendment rights, not duties."

I looked around the cab some more. "My bag's up top too?" She nodded. "Damn. I had some really good painkillers in there."

"No dope!!"

"Nuh-uh, acetaminophen, like, 500mg tablets. Really good for headaches."

"Oh, sorry. It just sounded bad, the way you said it."

My turn to smile. "Not everyone who chooses not to exercise their 2nd Amendment rights is a drug-snortin' hippie."

She laughed at that, and it was a nice laugh, almost musical. "Oh you and Ed are gonna get along swimmingly." she predicted.

I rummaged in the console, and came up dry. I popped open the glove box, and found some hopeful looking items. Several pill bottles were mixed in with a bunch of the usual glove-box crap. The first was caffeine pills, which didn't even raise an eyebrow. The second was an OTC antihistamine, no help, but a step in the right direction. Next up was some cold tablets. The last one was a small bottle of generic loperamide HCl. I knew what that was for, but it was no use to me right now.

"Anything in there you can use?" Nancy asked.

"Only if I find myself suffering an allergic reaction to a cold I get from crapping my pants and need to stay awake to enjoy it."

"Sucks to be you. Hang on a sec." she rapped on the roof sharply. After a few seconds, there was a muffled thump in reply. She rapped again, and rolled down her window, slowing down to 30mph.

Ed's voice accompanied a louder series of thumps on the roof. "What?"

"Hon, can you send down the bottle of ibuprofen and a canteen? Norm's in some pain here."

"Oh yeah, sure. How is he?"

"Lucid, which is good. Even kinda funny. Hurry up."

The roof thumped and crinkled a bit, and there was a rap on my window. I opened it, moving carefully, and reached up. A small bottle met my hand, and down it came. I reached up again, and a canteen was next. I gave Ed a thumbs-up, and rolled the window back up. I popped the top off, palmed two pills, and washed them down with several short sips. Done, I put the pills in the glove box, and set the canteen in the console.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. That's gotta hurt."

I nodded, slowly and sagely. "That it does." I looked out the window. This part of the highway was where we approached Syracuse; soon we'd veer right onto route 5. "You know the way to Auburn?" I asked, stifling a yawn.

"Yep. No sleeping!" My eyes popped open again. I hadn't even realized they'd closed, the tiny round devils.

"Yes ma'am!" I said, firing off a crisp salute, and nearly passing out when my hand hit my bruise.

This time I threw up on myself. The caplets I'd just swallowed lay half-melted on my thigh.

"Idiot!! You deserved that." she snarled. I couldn't agree more. Thankfully, all I'd had in my stomach was the water and pills. "And you've wasted basically irreplaceable medical supplies."

I wiped the pills into a small pile of paste, and scooped them up. "They're only wasted if they don't stay down." I put them back in my mouth, and swallowed. I spent the next few minutes cleaning up as best I could. Nancy sent word for a first-aid kit and my bag to be passed down, minus the canned food I mentioned. Much lighter, I hoisted it in. I took off my now unbearable shirt. The late afternoon sun felt good on my skin, but I've always been self-conscious about my appearance, so I shrugged on my orange polo, and swept the pill bottles from the glove box into the bag, tossed it behind the seat, and stretched.

Nancy said nothing during all that. I settled back, and she looked primed to say it again, so I pre-empted her. "All right, all right, no sleeping. I get it." I thought for a second, and unsnapped my seat belt. I turned in my seat, and reached for the bag.

"Forget something?"

I unzipped it, and pulled out the 'trucker's speed'. Holding it up for her to see, I switched to my best TV announcer voice: "Tired of concussions making you drowsy? Try NevRSleep!!" I popped two tablets out of the foil pack, and washed them down. The whole time I still felt woozy, but I was getting fed up with it, and it was time to suck it up and be a man. I put the bottle back in the bag, zipped it, and dropped it over the back of the seat again.

I spent the next few minutes cleaning and dressing my little-old-lady bite using the first-aid kit. The results looked pretty good. The injury had been superficial mostly, a couple small bruises, and a little flap of skin that looked more torn than cut. It barely bled. Just to be safe, I had cut away the upper layers of dead skin that were covering the tiny actual wound, and swathed it liberally with antibiotic cream. Then, to give me something to do, I unsheathed my swords, and methodically cleaned both with my vomitous shirt. By the time I was done, Little Stephen's tape had restarted again, and the sun was nearly down. We passed a sign.

AUBURN 5 MILES

My aim was true, the shirt flapped soggily in the wake of our passage, draped roughly over the sign. I watched it disappear in the rear-view mirror. When I turned back to grin at Nancy, she was glaring at me.

"What?!?"

"Littering?"

"It's biodegradable. I think. And it's also covered in zombie blood; no way does it stay in here."

She nodded, partially appeased, but didn't look happy about it.

I sulked, "It was a damn good shot."

"Oh, please, this thing has two speeds: slow, and damned slow. That wasn't exactly a display of ultimate skill back there."

I didn't have anything else to say, so I sat back and sulked some more, glaring at the dash.


	14. Chapter 13

To give myself something to do, I turned on the CB radio slung under the dash, and cycled methodically through the band. Expecting nothing, I was very pleasantly surprised to hit pay dirt on channel 9.

"Go ahead breaker."

I let out a whoop, joined by Nancy. We high-fived, and I got businesslike.

"This is Norm Carson, from Phoenix, with survivors from Baldwinsville. We're in a county plow truck headed for Auburn Prison. Can you put us in touch with them?"

"You ARE in touch with 'them', Norm. A plow truck eh? Congratulations, your entry fee is paid in full for you and your crew; we've been hoping to get a big-rig for our fleet."

"Entry fee?" I shared a worried look with Nancy.

The voice at the other end of the radio laughed, "Just an expression. Some folks came straggling in with nothing but the clothes on their backs in passenger vehicles. Not too many organized 'professional' survivors so far. It's just nice to have someone with their shit together show up at the door, you know?"

I started to roar with laughter at 'organized', and if not for my head wound, would've been howling at the 'shit together' line. Instead, I was clutching my head in agony while simultaneously giggling in fits. I'd dropped the mike helplessly during the process.

"Hello? Norm?" the radio crackled.

Nancy scooped up the mike, laughing a little herself. "Auburn Prison, you've badly overestimated us." She snorted with the mike still keyed, and I began alternating cries of pain and guffaws pretty much helplessly. She smacked me in the chest, which I hardly felt compared to the explosions going off in my skull, and struggled to continue. "We're hardly organized, but we're not nearly empty-handed. In addition to the truck, we've got several firearms, courtesy of two gunsmiths/survivalist nuts." (She actually said the slash, which made me laugh even harder, damn her.)

"Welcome to Fort Auburn! You're coming in from Syracuse, right?"

"10-4." I was beginning to regain some composure, but not much, and when Nancy whacked me again, I lost most of that.

"All right, take Arterial West to Route 38, also known as State Street, and turn right onto that. You'll cross some tracks, and we're the big square thing with the high walls and towers. Can't miss it. We'll be ready for you, just drive in the front entrance as the door opens, and we'll close it behind you and take care of anything that gets inside."

"Got it. How's the zombie situation?"

"Surprisingly good. The Mayor activated a plan to handle a mass prison break because that's what it was thought to be before we heard any different. So all the cops showed up at the prison in riot gear and shotguns, just as the first big wave of the things entered the city, probably following people fleeing. They hopped in their cars and fought them most of the way up Arterial East, that's pretty bad there. The zombies kind of scattered and fanned out through the city after that, and I'm sure there's been a lot of deaths, but the mayor's plan included a 'lock your doors, no travel' advisory, so there's a lotta scared folks trapped in their houses, but they're alive, mostly. Pretty much anyone you see walking the streets is fair game. The Mayor declared a 24-hour curfew, so all that's out there is zombies and former inmates. Not many of those left by now, I'd imagine."

I whistled low, "He's never gonna lose another mayoral race in this town." My head was a bright haze of pain, but it was actually better than the throbbing agony of earlier. All the blood rushing to my head had sort of equalized the pressure, I guess.

Nancy nodded, and keyed the mike: "Are you Wayne?"

"Nope, name's Gus. Wayne's been negotiating with the mayor, trying to figure out who's in charge of what. The cops took a real beating, what few are still alive are holed up in a few areas, and using their traffic chopper to get around and resupply."

"So, who are you guys anyway? How did you take the prison?"

Gus laughed, "Wayne gives a hell of an interview, doesn't he?" He sighed gustily, "It really wasn't nearly so sinister as all that. Near as we can figure out, and 'we' includes the surviving guards, the last prisoner transport out of Syracuse had a zombie in manacles. Apparently the SPD didn't realize this was no crackhead off his nut, and trussed him up and sent him to ACF for holding. On the way, the poor bastard infected some of the other prisoners, and one of the guards, none of whom were doing to well when they arrived. So they all get sent to the infirmary, the zombie in chains bites a few more guards getting into the hole, and six hours later most of the guards are being eaten or doing the eating. When Wayne and the rest of us showed up, we wanted the prison pretty badly, so we helped the surviving guards take out the few zoms, and then basically threw the inmates out to make room for important people that deserve protection."

"Who made that decision?" Nancy asked, with an edge to her voice.

A new voice came over the radio, "I did," I recognized the voice from the interview with Wayne Miller that Byron and I had listened to maybe an hour or two ago. From the look on her face, Nancy'd heard it too. "...and I've no intention of either apologizing for, or explaining, my actions, other than to say that this is a war for no less than the survival of our species, and I will do whatever it takes to win that war, no matter what. If you people have a serious bug up your asses about that, keep driving. There's not all that much room in here anyway..."

I have to say, I was of two minds about it myself. I'm in my mid-30s, which is the time in most intelligent people's lives when they lose some of their fierce conservatism, that they adopted after seeing how stupid the fierce liberalism from their teens was, and end up somewhere in the middle, as a moderate leaning one way or the other. A lot of those moderates lean left, and register Democrat, the rest lean right, and don't register or register Libertarian or Conservative or anything but Republican. On the one hand, violating all those prisoners rights like that (and I didn't even know the details of that yet, and wasn't sure I wanted to either) didn't sit well with me. On the other hand, this wasn't some minimum security country club for embezzlers and tax cheats. Auburn State Correctional Facility was a maximum security prison for well-established degenerates and drains on society: murderers, rapists, and affiliated scumbags. It's not like these people would have thought too hard about knifing me for a hot meal, or even a cold roast beef sandwich.

I motioned for the mike, and Nancy handed it to me, reluctantly. "Settle down, Wayne. Some of us are still adjusting to the, uh, paradigm shift, in our social reality. The Constitution and the Bill of Rights may have just taken mortal wounds, but they're gonna linger, dammit." Nancy smiled and nodded in approval, both hands back on the wheel.

"Even if it kills you?" he replied, in his gravelly Southern drawl.

"It hasn't yet. And turning back to do the right thing saved three lives. So how about we all agree that we're not going to apologize for whatever we need to do to survive, or bitch too strongly about it, until after we've finished surviving?"

"Fair enough..." he paused, waiting for an introduction.

"You're talking to Norm Carson; the lady that you heard a minute ago was our driver, Nancy Richardson. Her husband Ed, a young lady named Emily, and three as-yet unidentified kids are riding in the dumper."

"Any of you bitten?"

I swallowed nervously, and looked at my right hand. I'd had time on the ride here to clean and dress it, with a neat gauze patch taped firmly in place. "Me. On my right hand, by a little old lady. Her teeth came out when I pulled my hand back, her false teeth. I feel fine so far."

"Stand by."

Nancy and I shared a look, and she raised an eyebrow at me. "Why tell them?"

"Because...because I don't know if I am infected or not. And I don't want to be the guy that fucks it up for everyone else. You know, how in the movies there's always one asshole that gets bit and hides it, and then they turn and kill a bunch of people or just get everyone killed. I don't want to be that guy." I grinned, "''Sides, I never could lie for shit anyway."

The radio crackled as she was about to reply: "All right Norm, we appreciate your honesty. You know the situation we're all in. Normally, I'd tell you to go fuck yourself, but we have a prison here, and it's a really simple matter to put you in a cage for a few days and see if you turn or not. So we're letting you all in when you show up, but first we have a little job for you."

It was a far better answer than I'd expected, and I blew out my breath, not even realizing I'd been holding it. "Name it." I was in no mood to bicker.

"Well, the mayor and I have reached an agreement of sorts, but he's got some problems at the moment. Turns out City Hall wasn't as easy to defend as his police chief thought it would be. They've lost the ground floor, and there's not enough time or fuel in their chopper to get them out that way. So you need to go fetch. Put your driver back on, and get ready for some action."

I handed the mike to Nancy.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 14 in progress

Also, tragic news. In trying to obey the 'no non-story chapters' rule, I've inadvertently lost chapter 12, Nancy's recounting of the churchyard battle to Norm. Apparently in my madness, I made no backups. If any of you few that have read this went and saved it, I'd be eternally grateful if you'd contact me. 12 is its new number, so the original number is probably thirteen. Here's hoping. I doubt the second draft will do the first justice. Memory is less than Muse.

It seems to be impossible to put an email address in here, so just use the regular channels to contact me.


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